Nightmare from Dreamland
by Peaceful Poison
Summary: The newest top-secret military bio-weapon has escaped, and is wreaking havoc through the country.


The general marched down the hallway with purpose. He hoped he had read the memo incorrectly. If he hadn't, there would be hell to pay.

He approached the heavy blast door, labeled "Project K," and pressed his eyes to the retinal scanner. With a deep scraping noise, the massive locks on the door disengaged and it slid open, granting him entry. Inside the room, a multitude of supercomputers lined the walls, from which several wires and tubes ran into a small plexiglass tube in the middle of the room. The tube, barely two feet tall, was shattered and empty. A single terrified lieutenant stood at attention and saluted the general.

"Sir!" he barked respectfully.

"God dammit, Simmons! If there's an explanation for this bullshit, I'd like to hear it right now!" the general shouted. If the project had escaped, it was all over. The contract would be given over to the Marines and their inhumane experiment, and his career was done for.

"It…broke out, sir!" Simmons began, fear choking his words, "It just woke up, destroyed the tube like it was nothing, and left through there!" Simmons indicated a neatly-carved hole in the wall, illuminated by intermittent sparks.

"Jesus H. Christ…" the general muttered in awe, "How the hell did it do that?"

"Glass, sir…it…it mimicked the glass. Cut through like a knife through butter, sir."

"Jesus…" the general repeated again. If nothing else, they knew the damned thing worked. "Simmons!"

Simmons snapped to attention, "Yes, sir!"

"Put three of your best men on each exit! It can't have gotten far!"

"Sir, yes sir!" Simmons shouted, then something occurred to him. "Sir! It can cut through walls at the present time, sir!"

"Through that wall, it can. Need I remind you, son, that the exterior of this base is made of the toughest stuff the government could find?"

"Sir! I'm sorry I doubted your base, sir!"

"Damn right you are. Get to it!"

"Sir!"

The general left Simmons to his orders and returned to his office, confident that crisis had been averted.

The general did not get a chance to relax, however. Moments after he had taken his seat, the phone rang.

"General Jackson speaking," he started.

"I know who you are, Mr. Jackson," came a calm voice at the other end of the line, "Jackson, Henry H. General, First-class, currently in command of research installation Codename: Dreamland. Hometown: Houston, Texas. Wife: Debra. Children: John, Florida, and Timothy. Shall I go on?"

"That's enough," Jackson grunted. He didn't have time to put up with the god damned suits at the Pentagon or their mind games. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

"I'm Chief Director Shiloh, Division Zero."

"Division Zero?"

"We don't officially exist. We're your biggest contributor. Surely you know what Division Zero is?"

"Dammit, Chief Director, I do know what Division Zero is. I just didn't expect you megalomaniacal eggheads to actually have a phone."

"I'll let that one slide, Mr. Jackson. How is Project K progressing?"

The call couldn't have come at a worse time. General Jackson played it as diplomatically as possible. "We've run into a small glitch, but things are otherwise progressing as expected."

"Is Project K operational?"

"Operational? Uh, yes. I would definitely say so."

"Will this small glitch affect its performance?"

"No, not at all. Why?" Jackson was starting to grow apprehensive. He hoped a surprise inspection wasn't on the way.

"You're going to love this, Mr. Jackson. We just received word from the Marines at research installation Nightmare. They lost Project DDD."

Jackson could hardly keep himself from jumping onto his desk and dancing. "Have they checked their other pants?" he quipped.

"This is no laughing matter, Mr. Jackson. That bird was fully operational. It escaped. Killed at least 50 Marines on the way out. Injured dozens more."

Jackson's throat dried almost instantly.

"Get Project K up and running, and send it to incapacitate that monster by any means necessary, ASAP. This is a direct order from the President himself. Is your objective clear?"

Jackson hadn't realized that he had stood up, but he collapsed into his chair. He suddenly felt very tired. "Y-Yes, sir."

"Screw this up, Mr. Jackson, and you are a dead man."

Jackson didn't respond.

"Oh, and the contract's all yours. Congratulations." The phone went dead.

Jackson sat in silence for a minute. Then he radioed Simmons. "Any word, yet?" he demanded.

"None yet, sir. Team Foxtrot at Gate 6 says they've heard a suspicious scraping sound. I'll keep you posted."

"No need, Simmons. Just give me Foxtrot's frequency."

"34.8, sir. Sergeant's name is Forrester."

Jackson radioed Foxtrot's frequency. "Team Foxtrot, this is General Jackson. Do you copy?"

A tough Brooklyn accent came across from the other end. "Copy that, sir, this is Foxtrot. Forrester speaking. What do you need, sir?"

"I want you to go investigate that noise you've heard, right now. And stay on the line. Give me the play by play."

"Yes, sir. We're going." Jackson heard Forrester relay the orders to his comrades. There was a few minutes of static and the sounds of slow footsteps. "The scraping's getting pretty loud, sir. I think we found some…JESUS!" he shouted. Gunshots rang out from the other end, accompanied by a pain-filled scream. "Shit! Shit! It got Gardener! Shit!"

"Hold your fire, Foxtrot! Hold your fire! Capture only! Repeat, capture only!" Jackson screamed into the radio.

"Doesn't matter sir! We can't hit this thing anyway! Shit! Shit! Jesus Christ!" another scream came across, followed by a series of clattering a scraping noises. "Oh my god! It got Cameron! It's got me! Shit! This thing is…" there was a sickening wet noise, then the line was silent. Jackson sat stony faced for a minute, then picked up the phone. "Operator, call Herkimer. Tell him to bring that monstrosity of his over. We may have use for it yet."

Several hundred yards away from the base, a small, globular figure sprinted across the desert, leaving small dust devils in its wake. It was a spherical, fleshy thing, with dark, empty eyes and protruding, meaty lips that covered a mouthful of horrific, serrated teeth. Stubby feet propelled it along, and it held out its tiny, mostly vestigial wings to maintain balance. It didn't know what it was or where it was, nor did it know what it was doing. All it knew was that it felt an irresistible pull, and it was determined to follow it.


End file.
